


all you knead is love

by Lobo_Loca



Series: Octopath drabbles [3]
Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Accidentally half food porn oops, Established Relationship, Expressing Affection with Baked Goods, F/F, Fluff, H'aanit-centric, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 14:39:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16088156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lobo_Loca/pseuds/Lobo_Loca
Summary: H'aanit returns home to Flamesgrace after her annual visit to S'warkii, and bakes sweetdoughs for Ophilia.





	all you knead is love

H’aanit slips into the Flamesgrace Cathedral well before dawn. Most of the clerics are still asleep, but some are up and preparing for the day already. 

They barely spare H’aanit a glance but still murmur, “Welcome home.”

“I'm back,” H’aanit replies quietly, pulling off her boots. She knocks them against the door to get the worst of the ice off, then trades them for a fresh pair set out as Linde wipes off her paws.

Linde cirlces H’aanit, nipping at H’aanit’s coat and pack eagerly, and H’aanit nudges her away with a huff. 

“Giveth me a moment,” she says, shucking her pack and coat.

Linde grabs them as soon as they’re within reach.

H’aanit keeps her grip, telling Linde, “I shall taketh mine own pack.” 

Linde rawrs impatiently, tail dancing restlessly, and H’aanit lets her coat fall. Dropping the strap of H’aanit’ pack, Linde darts off towards the stairs. 

Ground floor quarters near the Archbishop’s rooms are traditional for Bishops and their families, but Ophilia prefers a smaller set of rooms amongst the rest of the clerics. Harder to feel lonely with less space, H’aanit imagines, and Linde will be a welcome companion. Even if Ophilia won’t be awake when Linde inevitably crawls in to cuddle. H’aanit tries not feel envious as she heads for the bath.

This early, the bath’s empty. 

H’aanit scrubs off the road dust and sweat before going to soak. Natural hot springs keep the baths hot year round, and H’aanit lets the warmth seep back into her bones until her fingers start to prune. She changes into fresh clothes, stuffs the dirty ones into her pack, and heads for the kitchens while perfunctionarily braiding her hair.

The clerics in the kitchen greet her with weary nods. A section of counter has been left open and lined with ingredients and tools, one of the range burners is sitting empty, and someone’s even started the oven fires, which is the best welcome home the clerics could’ve offered.

Grabbing an apron, H’aanit rolls up her sleeves and sets to work. She heats the milk then pours it into a small bowl before stirring in a spoonful of sugar and whisking in a half spoon of yeast. Waiting for the yeast mixture to turn foamy, H’aanit combines the flour, salt, and a few more spoonfuls of sugar in a larger bowl as she listens in on the latest Cathedral gossip.

A couple baptisms and a few courting couples circling closer. Nothing else of note amidst the now routine grumbling for Archbishop Leif to retire already and let Ophilia have the hat, which H’aanit heard many times before she went to help S’warkii prepare for winter.

She carefully cuts the butter into small pieces then checks the yeast mixture. Finding it foamy, H’aanit whisks in the eggs. She pours the milk mixture into the dry ingredients, stirring until they’re well combine before cutting the butter into the dough. Once the butter’s incorporated, H’aanit liberally flours the counter and turns out the dough.

Kneading is a mindless task. H’aanit’s thoughts drift into absent daydreams of the welcome home kisses waiting for her (once Ophilia has had time to wake up), calling Ophilia wife just to see her beam even three years later, and waking up next to her every morning again. The sleepily delighted smile Ophilia will wear when H’aanit presents her with fresh sweetdough for breakfast is more than worth the time and effort (even if that does mean less snuggling). 

H’aanit might even be able to tempt Ophilia to stay in bed for a few hours extra hours if she’s lucky.

Deciding the dough has been worked enough, H’aanit greases the bowl and dumps the dough back in. She brushes the top with butter and covers it with a towel before sticking it near the ovens. While the dough starts to rise, she grabs the wash basin. The dishes are quick enough work, so the dough’s barely half-risen by the time she’s done. H’aanit would leave the dough to rise and slip into bed with Ophilia in a heartbeat if she wasn’t certain they’d lose track of time. 

H’aanit digs the jams out of her pack and greases baking sheets instead. 

One of the newer sisters wanders over from watching a cookpot of porridge. 

H’aanit thinks she’s about sixteen, though she towers over most of her year-mates. Her name, or a derivative thereof, might be Katri.

Katri’s eyes widen as she reads the labels on the jars. “Is that knotberry jam?”

“The finest of S’warkii,” H’aanit affirms. Then, remembering Ophilia’s encouragements to be friendly with the new clerics,  she continues, “Wouldst thee liketh to tryeth a spoonful?”

Nodding eagerly, Katri retrieves a spoon and a piece of tack. 

H’aanit pops the top, gently pries out the disc of sealing wax, and slides Katri the open jar. Katri takes it reverently. Carefully, she gathers a small spoonful of jam and spreads it on the tack. H’aanit sets the lid back on top of the jam and sets it back with the others.

Katri stares at her piece of tack. “Merchants pass through sometimes with knotberry jam, but it’s always dreadfully expensive. No one but the nobles can afford it, so I’ve never actually had it before.”

There’s nothing H’aanit can do but shrug as she says, “Knotberries art plentiful in the Woodlands, and a popular choice for winter jams.”

“A land of plenty, by the sounds,” Katri comments. She eyes H’aanit like she’s not quite sure why H’aanit chooses the Frostlands over the Woodlands.

“Perhaps,” H’aanit says. “But mine own heart remains here and so shall I.”

She checks the dough. Deciding it’s risen enough, H’aanit flours the counter again and turns the it out on the counter. 

“Finish that, then help me with these sweetdoughs,” H’aanit tells Katri.

The young cleric hesitates. “Sister Cecilia put me in charge of the porridge.”

“Porridge needeth but a stir a half hour,” H’aanit says, tearing off a bit of dough. She shapes it into a ball, makes a depression in the middle with her thumbs, and sets it on tray. “If Sister Cecilia findeth fault with that, direct her to me.”

Katri devours the tack in three bites, wipes her hands on her apron, and asks, “What should I do?”

“Spoonful of jam in each well,” H’aanit says, pointing to the depressions.

Katri grabs a clean spoon and dutifully starts filling the sweetdoughs as H’aanit lines the baking sheets with dough balls. When the knotberry jam runs out, H’aanit points Katri to the other jars. Katri peruses the jams as H’aanit slides the first batch into the oven. H’aanit notes the time. She turns to remind Katri of the porridge, but old Brother Gregory waves H’aanit off and leans over from the stewpot to stir the breakfast porridge.

Katri blinks up from examining the jar. “Oh, thank you for taking care of porridge for me, Brother Gregory.”

“Just save one of those knotberry sweetdoughs for me, yeah?” he says cheerfully.

Smiling shyly, Katri nods and hurries over to start filling sweetdoughs again.

By the time H’aanit runs out of dough, the first rays of predawn have started to trickle into the kitchen, the finished sweetdoughs have been stacked in serving bowls, and there are only two more sheets left to bake. 

H’aanit stretches then claps Katri on the shoulder.

“Twenty five minutes, golden-brown means done,” she says. “I leaveth the rest to thee.”

Katri stares at H’aanit wide-eyed. “You’re leaving me in charge of the sweetdoughs?”

H’aanit laughs and slaps her encouragingly on the back. Katri rocks forward, but keeps her footing. 

“Thee shall beest fine. Meanwhile, I hast breakfast plans to attend,” H’aanit says, shouldering her pack.

Sister Astrid unearths a tray before H’aanit can ask. 

Grinning knowingly, she presses it into H’aanit’s hands and says, “Enjoy your morning, Lady H’aanit, and make sure Her Ladyship knows we don’t expect her until the noon prayer.”

“My thanks.”

H’aanit loads the tray with sweetdoughs, two glasses of milk, a bowl of porridge with two spoons, and a large plate of bacon, then sets off. 

The halls are busier now. More and more clerics have dragged themselves out of bed for chores before morning prayer or breakfast. The lively wave and the tired dip their chins as they pass.

H'aanit can't help but quicken her pace when the door of their room comes into sight at the end of the hall. Seven long strides brings her to their door.

Balancing the tray on one hand, H’aanit knocks.

“Room service,” H’aanit calls, nudging the door open.

Linde’s head lifts from the bed, nose in the air before she zeroes in on the tray in H’aanit hand. Linde’s bedmate is slightly slower.

Sleep-rumbled and half-awake, Ophilia hums inquisitively and struggles to keep her eyes open as she turns her head towards the door.

A familiar starburst of warmth flares under H’aanit’s breastbone. Nothing says welcome home quite like the soft curve of Ophilia’s lips and Ophilia’s unruly bedhead sprawled out on H’aanit’s pillow. Except perhaps getting to steal Ophilia’s pillow as H’aanit joins her.

H’aanit tempts Linde off the bed and into the hall with a handful of bacon.

Ophilia huffs, huddling under the covers. “Nooo. My personal heater. Come back.”

H’aanit laughs, drops her pack at the foot of the bed, and sets the tray on the nightstand. 

She presses a kiss to Ophilia’s temple, murmuring, “I am home, mine own dear wife.”

Turning over, Ophilia groggily fists a hand in H’aanit’s tunic and pulls her down for a sleepy kiss. “Welcome home, my lovely wife.”

H’aanit brushes their noses together. “I hast brought breakfast.”

Ophilia hums, eyes closed. After a moment, one eye pops open and focuses on H’aanit.

“Breakfast?” she asks.

H’aanit chuckles. “Sweetdoughs, bacon, eggs, and milk.”

Ophilia turns over more and makes an approving nose as she grabs the tray. “I have the  _ best _ wife.”

“I might not but disagreeth,” H’aanit says, toeing off her boots and climbing onto the bed beside Ophilia, “as mine own wife is certainly the most wondrous.”

Ophilia beams. She leans over to kiss H’aanit again before grabbing a sweetdough. “Nope. Mine brought me breakfast in bed, therefore I have the best wife.”

“But she was gone for two months,” H’aanit says, curling closer as she grabs a sweetdough for herself.

“She came back, which is what really matters,” Ophilia argues. “She also baked my favorite sweetdoughs to eat together while we snuggle. And I plan to drag her with me to morning prayer in half an hour, so obviously she’s the better wife.”

H’aanit sighs. “They art not expecting us until luncheon at the earliest.”

“Well, you can stay here and sleep, if you’d prefer,” Ophilia offers.

H’aanit rolls her eyes. They both know she’s going if Ophilia’s going.

There are worse things than dozing on Ophilia’s shoulder while the rest of the Cathedral sings hymns after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I was so excited to post I forgot notes lol.
> 
> [Link to the recipe I based the sweetdough dough on](https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/master-sweet-dough) Haven't actually tried to recreate sweetdoughs yet bc of RL craziness but it's on my to-do list. Once I get home and have access to a stand mixer that is. I do not have H'aanit's biceps.


End file.
